


The Good Son

by acquaintedwithvice



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 22:04:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17374073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acquaintedwithvice/pseuds/acquaintedwithvice
Summary: "He deserved this. He was the good son, an unfailing loyalist to the Underwood regime. "In which Doug spends some time alone with his ghosts.





	The Good Son

It never got any easier, doing this. A necessary evil, a descent into his baser instincts, a pressure-release valve. When he had been drinking, it came naturally - one weakness cascading after another, as simply as dominoes, as relentlessly as a waterfall. But he wasn't drinking, and so things required a little more... imagination.

It started with Rachel, of course - everything always started with Rachel. He thought, fingertips stroking down over ribs, dry grim mouth soft on a gasp, that he'd loved her, in his own way, with the few beggared scraps he had left of himself to offer. But that vast gap, between what he needed to give, and what she was willing to take, had gotten her killed. He blinked, swallowed, banished Rachel for the moment - her desert-dusty shade, bleeding and accusatory, would haunt him day and night if he allowed it. Naturally, he could not allow it.

Next to rise from the grave was Ed Meechum - a conquest that had never happened, save in idle imagination, repressed fever dreams. Poor Ed, with his big doe eyes and impassioned loyalty. The little hurt noise he'd make when sure fingers wrapped around his cock, defined muscles in his abdomen twitching as he tried not to thrust, to make a mess of himself - the hot, hard pulse of him, slick heat and a ragged groan when he inevitably failed. Poor Ed, who had been such a dedicated soldier in their blackhearted little band.

The ripple of muscle melted into quivering white flanks, and there was LeAnn, with her soft dark hair and smart mouth, bent double over his desk as he railed her... Or kneeling beneath it, that smart mouth silent for once as he tangled his fingers into those silky locks and made her drool and choke. She had been a thorn in his side, a source of feminine frustration that questioned him constantly and never yielded the prompt results he demanded. And yet, what a distraction, hovering always at the edge of the scene... That sly half-smile she'd give him when she thought she'd gotten away with something. He hissed in the hermetic darkness of his bedroom, hand tight over the head of his cock, pumping. It was a risk, allowing his indulgent mind to linger on her, a fellow card in the stacked deck they all shared. But - in his mind, at least, for this moment - she was his. He deserved this. He was the good son, an unfailing loyalist to the Underwood regime.

Speaking of Underwoods... He bucked, a little whine getting caught in his throat as Claire materialized, a queen riding him to completion with no interest in his own. Claire, with her long legs and her taut belly and her cool blue eyes that looked right through him. The icy detachment of her regard made him shiver and burn. Yet even here, Frank was elevated, set apart. _Not the President,_ _never the President_ \- even in his lurid fantasies, Doug could not imagine it, could not swallow the creeping unease and shame of unworthiness. But his master would watch, from one of the ornate Federal style armchairs decorating the White House - would nod, occasionally, in purring approval as his staffer fucked his wife.

But it always ended with Rachel, as it started - her large, liquid eyes, streaked with mascara, the sweet petrichor scent of her; the way her cheeks had hollowed over his shaft the first time they'd met, as if she would drain him dry and leave him an empty husk. Perhaps she had. His fist tightened, moving hard and fast over his reddened cock, and the cresting rush of release took him in a white-hot paroxysm, the only sound in the silent room the outward rush of breath as he broke.

But in his head, over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears and the ticking of the clock in the hall, he heard the scrape of gravel on a steel shovel, smelled the earthy aroma of a freshly dug grave, in the vast grey emptiness of the American southwest. Grimacing, gritting his teeth to stave off a sudden wave of nausea, he sat up and reached for a towel, staggering into the shower. _I'm gonna get back to work._


End file.
